LEJOG day 68: Helmsdale to Dunbeath
I think I've got used to walking along the edge of the A9. I'm definitely way less miserable than I was when I arrived in either Brora or Helmsdale. This may be a form of Stockholm syndrome, I don't know, I'm not a psychiatrist.
The further North I get, the less I'm enjoying my days off, sadly. I think something happens to museum curators sent out here, because the museums have been getting increasingly unlike a museum ever since I crossed the border, with a bit of an exception made for Edinburgh (although their "history of Scotland" exhibition was really hard to follow or engage with). There was the meta-museum in Peebles, the somewhat chaotic Highland museum in Fort William, and then: Helmsdale. The museum- sorry, heritage centre- is exactly three rooms. The first looks like a museum: artifacts of the town's herring-fishing past, the salmon fishing in the river Helmsdale, and from the year-long gold rush, and some writing on the wall- again quite lacking in actual dates or concrete facts because apparently that's gone out of fashion for museums- about the clearances, herring fishing, lifeboats and salmon fly fishing. It felt like it was the middle room of a larger exhibit, but it at least felt like a museum.
The middle room was entirely dark, with a stuffed wolf in one corner and a 21-minute Art Film entitled "Wolf" playing on loop. It consisted mostly of moody scenes of Scottish moors and fighting stags, with some very anxiety-inducing strings playing, and a voiceover ostensibly about impact of the extinction of wolves in Sutherland over 300 years ago, which actually mostly consisted of pseudo-spiritual gobbledygook and included the glorious lines "Wolf pads through our psyche" and "Wolf is the prophet and forerunner of our fate". It also refused to use any pronoun or article in association with the word "wolf". It was very odd.
The third room was a standard museum mock-up of the blacksmith/general store/a home with the usual opportunities for dressing up small children and invitations to imagine life living with your whole family in just one room without running water or an inside toilet! After "Wolf", it felt disarmingly normal, even the creepy wax figures.
Upstairs was a "gallery" which again consisted of a room in total darkness with screens playing odd things, so I took a video and fled.
By comparison, walking along the A9 through the Ord of Caithness and Berriedale was remarkably unterrifying, despite gusts of wind up to 40mph which alternately threatened to force me into the path of oncoming traffic or off the road, over the cliffs and into the sea. The sun was out, visibility was good, and for a good few miles out of Helmsdale had either a pavement or a very generous hard shoulder to walk on- which naturally disappeared as soon as the road started seriously bending.
I had lunch in a tearoom in Berriedale, which was excellent, having walked past the site of "Badbea Historical Clearance Village" (as the signs termed it). I didn't go as far off the road as the site of the village itself, mainly because I could well imagine the wind sweeping not only chickens and small children but me over the cliffs unless they were tied down.
My parents have told me not to tell them about the A9 because they have to drive along it to come and get me in two days' time, so I'm just going to say that it was much quieter than I expected as I walked along it from Berriedale and reached Dunbeath, where there was a pavement which started a full mile and a half outside the town (luxury!) and a Spar so terrible I actually touched a milk bottle to see if the fridges were on. The problem was, I was hoping this Spar would sell me a bag of pasta and a jar of sauce to eat for dinner, as Dunbeath boasts exactly one restaurant, which is closed on Mondays and up for sale, and my B&B very explicitly does not offer evening meals. The next nearest place to eat is back in Helmsdale, and there is no bus. The Spar, however, sold cheese, bacon, milk, biscuits and cleaning supplies, and some carrots I would throw out if I found them in my fridge, so I arrived at my B&B something of a panic. Happily, the tearoom a mile further along the A9 has furnished me with a jacket potato and baked beans in a glamorous polystyrene box, and my landlady will microwave it for me later.
My feet now resemble photographs of the healing process following terrible flesh-eating infections, as the skin overlying the blisters has rubbed away, revealing other, smaller blisters underneath and patches of almost-normal-looking skin. It's disgusting. I took photos, obviously.
Distance walked: 16.01 miles
Time taken: 4h33
Percentage completed: 96.3%
Miles left to walk: 41
Days since I was last rained on: 1
Lunch: ploughman's! My first of the trip! And then a scone
Last night's B&B: Tigh air a Chnoc, Helmsdale: another memory foam mattress and nice hosts, although the bathroom was shared
one of these signs is reassuring; the other is not
the first Highland cattle I've seen! Apparently there's no money in the breed (according to Libby in Kilsyth, who judges at the Highland show so she should know)
Not a hotel any more
The further North I get, the less I'm enjoying my days off, sadly. I think something happens to museum curators sent out here, because the museums have been getting increasingly unlike a museum ever since I crossed the border, with a bit of an exception made for Edinburgh (although their "history of Scotland" exhibition was really hard to follow or engage with). There was the meta-museum in Peebles, the somewhat chaotic Highland museum in Fort William, and then: Helmsdale. The museum- sorry, heritage centre- is exactly three rooms. The first looks like a museum: artifacts of the town's herring-fishing past, the salmon fishing in the river Helmsdale, and from the year-long gold rush, and some writing on the wall- again quite lacking in actual dates or concrete facts because apparently that's gone out of fashion for museums- about the clearances, herring fishing, lifeboats and salmon fly fishing. It felt like it was the middle room of a larger exhibit, but it at least felt like a museum.
The middle room was entirely dark, with a stuffed wolf in one corner and a 21-minute Art Film entitled "Wolf" playing on loop. It consisted mostly of moody scenes of Scottish moors and fighting stags, with some very anxiety-inducing strings playing, and a voiceover ostensibly about impact of the extinction of wolves in Sutherland over 300 years ago, which actually mostly consisted of pseudo-spiritual gobbledygook and included the glorious lines "Wolf pads through our psyche" and "Wolf is the prophet and forerunner of our fate". It also refused to use any pronoun or article in association with the word "wolf". It was very odd.
The third room was a standard museum mock-up of the blacksmith/general store/a home with the usual opportunities for dressing up small children and invitations to imagine life living with your whole family in just one room without running water or an inside toilet! After "Wolf", it felt disarmingly normal, even the creepy wax figures.
Upstairs was a "gallery" which again consisted of a room in total darkness with screens playing odd things, so I took a video and fled.
By comparison, walking along the A9 through the Ord of Caithness and Berriedale was remarkably unterrifying, despite gusts of wind up to 40mph which alternately threatened to force me into the path of oncoming traffic or off the road, over the cliffs and into the sea. The sun was out, visibility was good, and for a good few miles out of Helmsdale had either a pavement or a very generous hard shoulder to walk on- which naturally disappeared as soon as the road started seriously bending.
I had lunch in a tearoom in Berriedale, which was excellent, having walked past the site of "Badbea Historical Clearance Village" (as the signs termed it). I didn't go as far off the road as the site of the village itself, mainly because I could well imagine the wind sweeping not only chickens and small children but me over the cliffs unless they were tied down.
My parents have told me not to tell them about the A9 because they have to drive along it to come and get me in two days' time, so I'm just going to say that it was much quieter than I expected as I walked along it from Berriedale and reached Dunbeath, where there was a pavement which started a full mile and a half outside the town (luxury!) and a Spar so terrible I actually touched a milk bottle to see if the fridges were on. The problem was, I was hoping this Spar would sell me a bag of pasta and a jar of sauce to eat for dinner, as Dunbeath boasts exactly one restaurant, which is closed on Mondays and up for sale, and my B&B very explicitly does not offer evening meals. The next nearest place to eat is back in Helmsdale, and there is no bus. The Spar, however, sold cheese, bacon, milk, biscuits and cleaning supplies, and some carrots I would throw out if I found them in my fridge, so I arrived at my B&B something of a panic. Happily, the tearoom a mile further along the A9 has furnished me with a jacket potato and baked beans in a glamorous polystyrene box, and my landlady will microwave it for me later.
My feet now resemble photographs of the healing process following terrible flesh-eating infections, as the skin overlying the blisters has rubbed away, revealing other, smaller blisters underneath and patches of almost-normal-looking skin. It's disgusting. I took photos, obviously.
Distance walked: 16.01 miles
Time taken: 4h33
Percentage completed: 96.3%
Miles left to walk: 41
Days since I was last rained on: 1
Lunch: ploughman's! My first of the trip! And then a scone
Last night's B&B: Tigh air a Chnoc, Helmsdale: another memory foam mattress and nice hosts, although the bathroom was shared
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